


Chicago's Most Eligible Bachelor

by Lyowyn



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Banter, Blanket Permission, Humor, M/M, courting, major spoilers for Battle Ground
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:28:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27084121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyowyn/pseuds/Lyowyn
Summary: Harry gets an unexpected gift.Marcone has a worrying proposal.How is this even his life?
Relationships: Harry Dresden/Johnny Marcone
Comments: 69
Kudos: 160





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Major spoilers for Battle Ground.

I was rudely awoken, admittedly closer to midday than to dawn, by the loud clamor of the door chimes.

My new castle had those— _real_ door chimes. They were powered by a series of gears and pulleys rather than by anything electronic, which meant that they weren’t likely to stop working from my mere presence. I’d been charmed by the contrivance when I'd first moved in—by the old world, mechanical, simplicity of the things.

But, just now, I was reevaluating my opinion of them, as the noise ricocheted and echoed through the bare rooms and empty halls.

I’d spent yesterday afternoon working on finishing the castle’s renovations with Michael, and I’d been up half the night working on figuring out the wards and enchantments. The sun had been rising when I’d finally passed out on an inflatable mattress, on the floor of what would be my bedroom, and when I’d been woken by the door chimes, I’d found that it had leaked and deflated in the night. I was stiff and sore from all but sleeping on the stone floor, and I wasn’t at all happy for being woken from even that uncomfortable slumber.

“Hell’s bells,” I bellowed in grumpy wizard, as the sound began again, and I stomped wearily toward the door, belting my robe around my waist in a vain effort at decency. I'd been sleeping in just my boxers, and I'm a tall guy. It's hard to find a bathrobe long enough to cover my knees.

I'm sure that I looked the part of the mad wizard out of your choice of fantasy novel when I answered the door to find a man in a delivery uniform holding a clipboard.

He looked at me and frowned down at his paperwork. “Sir Harry Dresden?” he asked, a little skeptically.

“Yeah,” I grumbled.

“Just sign here,” he said, handing over the clipboard.

I took it and scribbled something that started with what might have been an “H” and might have been a “W" and ended in an incomprehensible squiggle. I gave the clipboard back and accepted the envelope.

I don't know what I'd been expecting: something from Molly, maybe. I should have been on my guard, but I was magically and emotionally exhausted, still more than a little asleep, and half naked.

I opened the envelope and took out the folded sheet of heavy paper inside.

_This was meant to be a house warming present, but if rumors are true, perhaps it should be an engagement present instead. Regardless, consider it a gift, freely given, with no hold or obligation._

_-Baron John Marcone_

I stared at the note in confusion for a moment, and then opened the envelope again to check the contents.

Empty.

That's when I noticed the very large, bright yellow, moving truck parked outside my door, and felt a pang of empathy for Arthur Dent.

If I'd been thinking clearly at all, I would have turned them away, marked the crates return to sender, or just had them leave the lot of it on the curb for the garbage men.

Instead, I found myself standing aside, trying to figure out what this might mean in regards to whatever Marcone was undoubtedly scheming, as half a dozen burly men in matching polo shirts transferred what had once been an entire herd of cows into my new home-- in the form of two dark brown, leather, sofas and four matching armchairs. These were followed by a pair of mahogany coffee tables and accompanying end tables. A second truck arrived, and a California king sized four poster bed of dark oak was assembled with the almost supernatural efficiency of a NASCAR pit crew. A set of carved oak bedside tables joined it

Maggie's room was given the same treatment by means of a canopied pink monstrosity that would have fulfilled the fantasies of any little girl, with dreams of being a fairy princess—though, I think, Molly Carpenter would have hated it.

I had just followed the last of the delivery men out the door, and I was about to reset my wards, when a black sedan pulled up to the curb.

Gentleman Johnny Marcone himself, Freeholding Lord of Chicago and Knight of the Blackened Denarius, stepped out.

His was wearing his usual well-tailored suit, with a large, rectangular, insulated bag over one shoulder. While I was still sporting a few injuries from the fight with Ethniu, he looked no worse for wear, despite having had his neck broken. The advantages of allying yourself with a fallen angel, I supposed. The Winter mantle helped to speed up the healing process, but my body still had to do most of the work. It just managed it about five times faster than normal mortals. You couldn’t have guessed that Marcone had ever been injured at all. He looked the same as he always did: powerful, well-muscled, with his salt and pepper hair neatly trimmed, and the bearing of a tiger that wasn’t hungry but might reconsider if something appealing happened by.

He was smiling, and his dollar-bill green eyes glittered with amusement, as he crossed the distance between us, and I took a step back, inside the doorway, and reached behind me to wrap a hand around my staff, where it leaned against the wall-- just in case his new set of violet eyes made an appearance, or he decided to pull an Uzi out of that bag. I wished that I’d thought to put on my duster. The bathrobe that I was wearing was scant armor against the sort of attack that John Marcone, with a little help from Thorned Namshiel, could bring down on my head. At least I was wearing my shield bracelet.

He came to a stop before the door.

“If the furniture was meant to be some kind of peace offering, you should know that you're too late. I already made plans to go to IKEA with Michael today. I have connections. The Einherjaren gave me a coupon.”

“Ah well,” Marcone said. “Even taking the many advantages of flat-pack Nordic furniture into consideration, it's a very _large_ castle for just two people. Undoubtedly you'll find somewhere to put my gifts to use. I know I could never hope to forestall the property damage caused by your pique with the measly offering of tens of thousands of dollars worth of tasteful furniture. That's why I brought this.” Instead of the gun I’d been expecting, Marcone reached into the bag slung over his shoulder and pulled out a brown paper bag with the Burger King logo on it.

I caught a whiff of what had become of what was left of the herd of cows after they'd finished furnishing my living room, and my stomach growled traitorously, diminishing the impact of whatever witty retort I might have come up with.

Marcone smirked. “May I come in?”

I leaned against the doorframe and gave him a considering look, adopting a lazy air, even as I gripped my staff tighter, out of sight. “If it were only you, _John_ , I'd say yes, but you know that your spikey little friend is never going to be welcome in my home.”

I'd only just moved in, so there wasn't much of a threshold to speak of, even if I was busy making the place into a family home, but my wards were powerful enough, and there was no way in Hell (no pun intended) that I was going to let Thorned Namshiel through the door without a fight.

It was probably a fight I'd _lose_ , but still. It was the principal of the thing.

Marcone tilted his head to the side, considering it, for just a moment, and then nodded to himself. “That's reasonable,” he said finally.

He made a gesture at his waiting car, and Sigrun Gard stepped out.

I watched the Valkyrie warily, out of the corner of my eye, but the bulk of my focus was set on Marcone, as I readied for the fight.

He was perfectly calm as he loosened his tie and undid the first few buttons of his shirt. The last time I'd seen him do that was when he brought forth Namshiel in the final showdown with Ethniu—the better to make room for the thorns that sprouted from his neck, chest, and shoulders.

But, his skin didn't turn dusky, no sigils or angelic eyes opened on his brow, and he didn't turn into a rambling rose.

The blackened denarius on its silver chain around his neck was visible for a moment, before he closed his fist around it and looped the chain over his neck. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, carefully wrapped it around the coin, and handed it off to Gard.

“Namshiel will be waiting in the car while I discuss my proposal with Sir Dresden,” he said.

I just gaped at him, in shock, as he breezed past me through the open door, trailing the smell of fast food in his wake, and I realized that I had, quite unintentionally, invited him in.

I practically slammed the door in Gard's face as I hurried after Marcone.

I caught up with him in the living room, taking (I kid you not) a pair of blue and white china plates from his bag, and two cans of coke with drops of condensation forming on their sides.

I suddenly realized just how dry my mouth felt as I watched him pull whoppers and fries out of the bag and arrange them carefully on the plates, like he was trying to win Gordon Ramsey’s approval.

“Okay, Marcone, _what the fuck_?” I don't swear very often. I think the English language can be arranged in more creative and colorful forms of expression than George Carlin's 7 dirty words, but if there was ever a situation that deserved a ‘ _what the fuck_ ,’ this was it.

I said it again, just for good measure. “What. The. Fuck.”

“Please, Mr. Dresden,” he said, taking a seat primly on my new sofa. “Won't you join me for a meal? There's something that I wish to discuss with you—the possibility of a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

I rolled my eyes then. “We've had this _discussion_ before. Can't you handle rejection? No means no, Marcone.”

His lips quirked into a smile at that. “I think I would have remembered if I'd ever made this particular proposal to _anyone_ —especially you. Please, have a seat.”

I saw red. The sheer gall of him. Barging into my home like he owned the place, and inviting me to sit down… on a sofa that he'd bought for me… and smiling…

Seriously, man, _what the fuck_?

My stomach rumbled again.

I snatched up one of the plates, and a coke, and sat down on the other sofa. I most certainly _did not_ throw myself down on it like a sulky teenager. My aching body sunk right into the buttery leather. It was probably the most comfortable couch I’d ever sat on, which only increased my irritation.

I took a big bite out of the burger and cracked open the coke to wash it down. “Alright, fine. I'll play. What is this about?”

Marcone waited until he'd finished chewing one of his fries, swallowed, and dabbed his mouth with one of the paper napkins, before he said anything. “I heard that Mab has granted Lara Raith permission to court you,” he said, instead of answering my question.

“What can I say,” I said, through another mouthful of half-chewed whopper. “My milkshake brings all the White Court vampires to the negotiating table.”

“Indeed,” Marcone said, a little frown creasing his brow. “Then you aren't opposed to the idea?”

“Hell’s bells, of course I'm _opposed_ to the idea. Lara isn't exactly my type, and, _before you say anything_ , it wasn't her idea either. Mab cooked this up on her own. We have a year. We'll find a way to wiggle out of it.”

Marcone gave me a look like a feline apex predator who'd just gotten the cream. “I was hoping you'd say that.”

And, before I could ask what he meant, he was talking again, and I was spitting masticated beef all over the expensive mahogany coffee table.

“Marry me instead.”

When I'd managed to regain my ability to speak, all I could think to say was, “What?” and I felt a surreal kind of déjà vu.

“Mab wishes to shore up her political alliances,” Marcone continued. “I'm sure that she would consider me a reasonable alternative.”

“ _What_?”

“You would benefit far more from such an arrangement with me. Lara's priorities are for her family first and the White Court second. Whereas, my concern is for this city and its people.”

“ _Whaaat_?” I whispered to myself.

“If there's anything that the battle with Ethniu has proven, it's that this city needs both of us.”

“ _What_?”

“Harry?”

“Don't call me Harry,” I snapped.

Marcone's smile flickered back briefly. “Forgive me, _Sir Dresden._ I thought that perhaps the act of making a marriage proposal might grant me the right to use your first name.”

It was probably a fair point, but I ignored it. “I'm not _gay_ ,” I said, instead.

He snorted. “Don't be a child. It's a political marriage.”

“ _You're_ not gay,” I added.

He let his eyes rove lazily up and down my body, and smiled again. There was no mistaking the interest on display. I felt like a piece of meat.

“I assure you that I'd have no problems consummating the arrangement,” he said with a deep little purr that sent prickles up and down my spine.

I scooted back into the couch and adjusted my robe, wishing that I'd taken time to put on some pants.

“No doubt, I'd have less trouble in that department than Miss Raith with her… _White Court hang ups_. And, since there isn't the matter of producing a child to consider…” He trailed off and met my eyes. “Of course, I wouldn't approach Mab without your consent.”

“You're serious?” I asked, disbelieving.

Marcone inclined his head. “I am.”

“You're insane!”

“Not in the least. It's a much more sensible arrangement than an alliance with Lara. I think that if you set aside your heterosexual panic, you'll realize that.” He seemed completely unperturbed, as he began eating his fries again.

“It's not… _heterosexual panic_ ,” I grumbled. “I'm fine with it. Sleep with whoever you like, Marcone.”

He raised a brow.

“Not _me,_ ” I squeaked.

Stars and stones! What was it with everyone lately? First Lara and now Marcone? Was I on some episode of _The Bachelor: Supernatural Edition_ that I didn't know about? Would Kinkaid be blasting through my door with a bazooka and a box of chocolates next?

“I'll give you some time to think about it.”

“I don't need time to think about it,” I snapped back. I'm not marrying you, Marcone. I'm not marrying Lara. I'm not marrying _anyone._ ”

“And what if Mab doesn't give you a choice?”

“I…” I stopped short. It was one thing to make decrees and bluster, but was this really the hill I was prepared to die on? Would I rather leave Maggie an orphan than marry someone for Winter's political gain?

I sat back down and pushed the fries around my plate. Suddenly I wasn't feeling nearly so hungry.

And, I had to ask myself: the lady or the tiger?

Would Marcone really be so bad?

Sure, Lara was a knockout, and Marcone was… _a man_ , but what difference did it really make? I had zero illusions about what a relationship with Lara Raith would be like. It was a political alliance and nothing more.

I'd had romantic love in my life three times, and each time it had ended in death and heartbreak. Elaine, though still alive, was no exception. Why bother with any of it?

I had friendship. I had my daughter. If Mab was going to force me into a marriage of convenience, then I should make sure to get as much out of it as I could. Maybe I could do worse than Marcone. Maybe my own season of _The Bachelor_ wasn't such a bad idea. Not that I'd give Kinkaid a rose. I could do better than an assassin for hire, and marrying someone who'd once killed you was masochism on a whole other level. He'd probably prick his finger on a thorn and…

Thorn.

“Namshiel,” I said, shutting down that whole train of thought. “You're a knight of the Blackened Denarius, Marcone.”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Knowing that, how could you ever think that this was even a possibility?”

“Given the added longevity, I thought it might have increased my chances actually. Not much point in going through all the trouble if I were going to die of old age in a few decades.”

“Is that why you did it then, the longevity? After everything that they did to you on Demonreach?”

He grimaced. “I did it because Chicago needed a wizard.”

And… yeah, that made sense. My mere presence had stirred up all kinds of trouble in Chicago. I'd taken out the Red Court, and then I'd died, leaving one hell of a large power gap in the city's defenses. In the grand scheme of things, Marcone was just one little, vanilla mortal, fish in a great big ocean full of monsters. Sure, he was a shark, but what chance did he stand when there were kraken lurking in the depths? If he hadn't taken up the coin to pick up the slack, left by my death, there's no telling what kind of nasties would have moved into his turf.

Ethniu had decimated the city, even with all of the power of the accorded nations defending it.

I wasn't saying that taking up the coin was the right thing to do. But, yeah, okay, I guess I understood his reasons. I was the Winter Knight. I understood making moral compromises when you were out of options.

I'd be willing to excuse it, if he didn't still have the coin.

“Chicago has its wizard back now. Why don't you turn Namshiel over to Father Forthill?”

“Harry Dresden is back in Chicago,” he said, “but you're the Winter Knight now. Your allegiance is to Mab, not to the city. However, if you were to make a formal alliance with the Baron of Chicago…”

“So, we get hitched, and you give up the coin? Why do I find that hard to believe?”

“I wouldn't be entirely opposed to the idea,” he seemed to genuinely consider it. Then, he said, “Though, I would have expected that your experiences with Lasciel would have made you a little more open minded. Namshiel isn’t as bad as you think he is. The situation isn't so… black and white.”

“Always a grey area with you, even when it comes to fallen angels.”

“Everything is a grey area. Haven't you learned that by now? Ethniu has showed us just how outmatched we really are. Even suspecting that something like this was coming, with years of preparation, the mortal world only just survived by the skin of its teeth. Without Namshiel, we wouldn't have. I still have a great deal to learn, but Namshiel is a much more experienced practitioner than you are.”

I coughed and it sounded suspiciously like, “Concrete teacup.”

Marcone rolled his eyes. “You only prove my point. Could you have done it? Reduced concrete to its base components and reformed it in a mold of your own will?”

“I would have known better than to try.”

“So, you'd have me set aside my most powerful weapon for the sake of what? My soul? What is one soul weighed against the lives of millions?”

“Don't play the martyr with me, Marcone. I don't buy it. You’ve gained too much with your rise to power. Altruism doesn't go well with money. You're a businessman. You're happy enough to play the hero when it protects your bottom line, but you're a predator. You're only looking out for your own interests.”

He grimaced. “You may have seen my soul, but you don't know me as well as you think you do. You aren't the only one who has suffered losses. There are things that mean more to me than power and money, but there are things that you can do with power and money that simply aren't possible without. The reparations made to the victims of the battle wouldn't have been possible without it. I admit that it wouldn't have been my first concern, but an alliance between us would give you access to financial resources that you haven't had before. They are resources that you might use at your own discretion for such humanitarian efforts, in future.”

“And what do you get out of it?”

“You,” he said, “back in Chicago, where you belong.”

“I'm in Chicago now. I have this fancy new castle and everything.”

“And if the city needs you while Mab has you working elsewhere?” he asked.

“Then you're here to drop a concrete teacup on the bad guys, or the good guys as the case may be.”

He inclined his head. “I'm also fond of the idea of having the Winter Knight at my beckoned call. There are situations where that would prove useful.”

“Putting a ring on my finger isn't going to change the way I operate. I'm not going to get my hands dirty in your business dealings."

“Of course not. Let me be frank, then.”

“Okay, Frank. Mind if I stay Harry?”

He rolled his eyes. “I see that fatherhood hasn't improved your wit.”

“I'm the king of dad jokes.”

Marcone sighed. “We make better allies than we do enemies. Your continued disrespect is becoming difficult to ignore. I risk losing face by letting it slide, but I have no desire to make an issue of it. Making you my husband, forging a formal alliance with Winter, solidifies my power base. My forbearance where you are concerned will be seen as prudence rather than weakness.”

The word "husband" set a roiling feeling in my guts, but he made a good argument.

That was the problem with Marcone. He always had a reasonable justification for everything. It didn't mean that he wasn't an evil crime lord who'd built his empire on the suffering of others, and it didn't make his actions any less evil, but I was a lot less likely to make the ‘ends don't justify the means' speech these days. Not after I'd killed Susan in order to commit genocide, to end a war and save Maggie. Not after I'd taken up the mantle of the Winter Knight.

Marcone was right. The world was full of grey areas. I'd had to learn that the hard way.

Didn't mean I had to like it.

I sulked in silence while I finished my burger and started on my fries.

“This is insane,” I grumbled, when I'd finished.

“Have you reconsidered then? Do you give your leave to speak to Mab?”

Which is when it really occurred to me what a moot point the whole thing was. Mab had granted Lara a favor. The fae had strong ideas when it came to debts and promises. It didn't matter what Marcone had to offer her, or if she had more to gain from an alliance with the Baron of Chicago. She'd already given her word to Lara. She wouldn't go back on that, even if Lara would be happy enough to let her.

Mab would probably be offended that Marcone had even asked, and the Queen of Air and Darkness didn't react well to being offended. She'd eat him alive.

I snorted. “Yeah, go for it, Marcone. Good luck with that.”

I suddenly found a lot more enjoyment in my food, as I imagined how well _that_ meeting was going to go. I only wished that I could be there for the moment when Mab wiped that smug look off his face.


	2. Chapter 2

Three days had passed since Marcone had paid his little visit, and I hadn't heard a peep from either the baron or my queen. I imagined that Mab had him locked up in the dungeons of Arctis Tor, though that may have been wishful thinking on my part.

I really had spent an afternoon with Michael and Maggie at IKEA, and I'd bought rugs, bedding, pillows, and other home necessities to continue the seemingly endless task of outfitting Castle Dresden. Between that, all the renovations, and fixing the huge hole in the ceiling, my little stash of diamonds had suffered a noticeable depletion. And, I was almost grateful for Marcone's ostentatious gift. Actually, with my usual eclectic array of colors, patterns, and textures to offset the expensive and stylish (if comfortable) furniture, the place was beginning to feel like home. All it needed was a velvet Elvis or two.

Maggie had been staying with The Carpenters while I finished scoping out the ward enchantments and inspected every last corner and flagstone for any nasty surprises left by the previous occupants. I hadn't expected to find any, but there was no way that I was letting my daughter step foot in the place until I was absolutely sure. But, everything seemed to be in order, so Maggie would be, officially, moving in tomorrow—just a week before she was set to start school for the year.

I was standing in the kitchen, eating Chinese takeout off of one of Marcone's fancy plates, as I tried to compose a mental list of cooking implements that I still needed to buy. At the moment, all I had were the two plates that Marcone hadn't bothered to take with him, when he left after our little luncheon. And seriously, who proposes to a guy over Burger King, and then leaves him with the dirty dishes? How many restaurants did Marcone own, and I didn’t even rate a fancy candlelit dinner and a steak?

Not that I'm a fancy guy. I don't normally eat takeout off of real plates, though I seemed to be making a habit of it. I'd melted the Styrofoam container that my sesame chicken had come in, in the microwave. It wasn't my fault. I didn't realize that Styrofoam couldn't go in there. I've never owned a microwave before. Not that I'd be using it that much longer. I gave it another week, tops. I was surprised it was even working now, but I was happy enough to use it-- until it decided to explode and die a fiery electrical death. It sure was handy. What would the muggles think up next?

I was just running my plate under the faucet to rinse it when the air in the room suddenly went cold, and the water droplets spraying back off the plate turned to ice that stung where they struck my hand.

I shut the water off and turned to face The Winter Queen.

She wore a gown of palest blue, her hair done up into some complicated arrangement on top of her head, and the gaze she leveled on me was icy.

“Please explain to me, my knight,” she started, coldly, “why the Baron of Chicago believes that he has a claim to your hand?”

“My hand?” I asked, feigning ignorance. I held it up and wiggled my fingers.

She narrowed her eyes. “Then you _did not_ accept a courting gift from the Baron?”

“Courting gift?” I choked out. “No. _NO_. No courting gifts! He gave me some furniture as a _housewarming_ present. Free from hold or obligation. I have that in writing.”

So, that was his game. Did he think he was playing against amateurs? Did he think that Mab wouldn't check?

Her icy demeanor thawed a little with my denial, and I could read just a hint of my own confusion mirrored in her features.

“Then you did not invite him into your keep and share bread and salt with him?”

I froze.

 _That sneaky scumbag_.

The fae had very strong feelings about sharing food and hospitality. I'd been so hung up on the furniture and Marcone's proposal that I'd never stopped to think that I'd damned myself with a frigging value meal.

“I… Well…” I fumbled. “He brought over Burger King and asked me to marry him…”

Mab's eyes turned to glaciers, and her tone brought the temperature in the room down to sub zero. “He came to plight his troth, and you offered him hospitality, and shared of his bread and salt, after I gave Lara Raith my permission to court you, in payment of favor due?”

It wasn't really a question. I winced.

“Well, I didn't say yes,” I protested. “I told him that he had to take it up with you…. _My queen_ ,” I added belatedly.

“You will swear to me, Harry Dresden, on your name, and your power, that you did not accept his courting gift.”

“Only a housewarming present. Free of obligation. In writing. Honest.”

But, then I thought of the dish in my hand, and I looked down at it, _like an idiot._

Mab's eyes followed mine, to the plate, and her gaze sharpened suspiciously. “What is that?”

I grimaced, already seeing where this was headed. “A plate,” I said, failing utterly to sound nonchalant.

“Where did you get it?” she asked, her tone even.

“Marcone brought it over, so we could eat. I haven't bought anything for the kitchen yet.”

She extended her hand, and I reluctantly handed the plate over.

She flipped it upside down to look at the markings on the back and let out a very inventive string of curses. “You ate from this plate?” she demanded.

“Well, yeah… it's a plate. That's what it's for. I was thinking about playing frisbee later, but, like I said, I don't have any other dishes yet.”

Mab sighed and seemed to melt into herself, with sheer disbelief at my stupidity. I could sympathize.

“You, my knight,” she said finally, in a tone of resignation, “are proving to be more trouble than you are worth.”

“I get that a lot,” I said, trying to sound cute—like a puppy that's just torn up the sofa cushions. You can't kill a puppy that's all covered in sofa fluff, they're just too damned cute. I was hoping that even Mab could be swayed over into fond exasperation.

“So… what's so special about this plate?” I ventured, taking it back from her to give it a closer inspection.

I would have assumed that the plates were part of Marcone's china service, if I'd given any real thought to the table settings of mafia lords, but now that I really looked at it, I could tell that it was old. Probably some fancy Ming Dynasty porcelain, worth thirty gazillion dollars, and I'd put ketchup on it to dunk my fries in. I would have put it in the microwave, too, if I'd known that my Styrofoam takeout container was going to melt.

And, that's when I noticed the pattern. I hadn't bothered to really look at it up until that point. There was a perfectly innocuous looking plant of some type in the center, but all around the edge were little painted figures engaged in… activities that really didn't belong on the dinnerware. With the positions that some of the couples were contorted into, I wasn't even sure that they belonged in the bedroom.

“Chuang-Mu made a set of dishes,” Mab was saying, as I stared at it. “They were a gift to her husband, Chuang-Kong, on the occasion of their wedding. This plate is a part of that set.”

“Unhunh,” I said, firmly averting my eyes from the plate and trying not to seem awkward just holding the thing. “And… who are they?”

Mab sighed. “The Chinese God and Goddess of the bedchamber.”

“Ah,” I said. “So, this is like… an ancient Chinese version of the Kama Sutra… that you can eat off of?”

“A brazen, if appropriate, courting gift,” she said. “Though, perhaps not so appropriate, since Chuang-Mu ultimately divorced Chuang-Kong and entered the ranks of the underworld. It is said that she is a scourge among the demonic masses.”

“That would explain how Marcone got his hands on it, but I didn't accept the plates as a gift—definitely not as a courting gift. He just left them here. I'm not scheming around behind your back to marry a Denarian, Mab, I swear.”

“A _what_?” she snapped.

 _Whoops_.

I scratched the back of my neck. “Marcone is… carrying Thorned Namshiel's coin.”

I squinted my eyes shut and braced myself for her wrath. Namshiel had attacked Arctis Tor with hellfire, and Mab had a score to settle. Things really weren’t looking good for The Baron of Chicago.

When no outburst of rage was forthcoming, I cautiously opened my eyes and saw something even more unsettling.

Mab was smiling.

“That changes things considerably,” she said, sounding both pleased and thoughtful. “I have granted Lara my permission to court you. I did not swear that it would be a _successful_ courtship. It occurs to me that I may be selling my knight too cheaply. It is only proper to give your other suitors a chance to make their own offers.”

“Other _suitors_?” I asked, stressing the plural. I didn't like where this was going.

She clapped her hands together. “Three nights hence, we shall hold a ball, here in your keep, so that any interested parties may present themselves. I shall send The Winter Lady to arrange it.”

Before I could protest, she was gone, and I was left alone in my kitchen, holding Marcone's sex plate.

Hell’s bells.

Within half an hour, Molly had turned up.

“I'd really like to hear the explanation of how you turned the problem of being forced to marry Lara Raith, a year from now, into me having to drop everything I'm working on to arrange some kind of Prince Charming engagement ball—with John Marcone playing the role of Cinderella.”

I snorted out a laugh. I couldn't help it. It was all too ridiculous.

Molly's stern expression broke into a smile.

“It wasn't my fault, I swear.”

“I suppose you realize that any chance you had to get out of this is completely gone, now? I might have been able to bring Mab around to negotiating a different arrangement with Lara, but if she's going to auction you off to the highest bidder, there's no getting around it. It would cause a huge political backlash if you refuse to make good on the engagement.”

I sighed. “Just so she doesn't marry me off to a ghoul, I guess I'll deal with it. I'm not _happy_ about it, but,” I shrugged. “Murphy's dead. I killed Susan myself. I don't have a great track record with relationships. Lara and Marcone should know better than to even want to throw their hats into _that_ ring.”

A sad look crossed Molly's face, and she seemed to be about to try to say something comforting, but she must have read in my expression that it wouldn't be appreciated, so instead she said, “The ghouls don't have enough clout to make a decent offer. But, I don't know how much better you'll like any of the other choices.”

“Worse than Marcone?”

“Harry, you're the Winter Knight, the Wizard of Chicago, fresh from your defeat of a Titan. You'd be a tempting prize all on your own, but with an alliance with Winter on the table, every supernatural power with three pigs and a goat to offer Mab is going to be vying for a chance to throw their unmarried children at you.”

“You're exaggerating,” I said. “I'm worth two pigs and a chicken, at best.”

“I can guarantee that Marcone, at the least, is going to be bringing more than livestock to the negotiating table.”

Considering that I'd gotten into this whole mess over some leather furniture and a burger, I wasn't so sure that he needed to. “He gave me a sex plate,” I said instead. “That's weird, right? I'm not the only one that thinks that's weird.”

“A what?” she asked.

“Mu-Shu, the Chinese Goddess of sex, made her own version of the Kama Sutra, in pottery format, and Marcone snuck it in here and neglected to take it with him when he left. He's claiming it's a courting gift, but… _weird_ right.”

“Mu-Shu is the cartoon dragon from Mulan,” she said.

“Not really the point here,” I grumbled.

She gave me a pitying look. “Oh, my sweet summer child.”

“Don't give me that. I'm twice your age. And who's the master and who's the padawan here anyway?”

“I think that when it comes to sexual attraction, everyone is a master compared to you, Harry. Have you really been flirting with Marcone for all these years without expecting that he was ever going to do anything about it?”

“I haven't been flirting with him," I denied, futilely, for what felt like the hundredth time, "And, I definitely didn't imagine, _in my wildest nightmares_ , that he'd be trying to get me to marry him.”

“You could do worse,” Molly said.

“Worse than Marcone?” I said, _again._ “You _are_ inviting the ghouls.”

She started ticking off points on the fingers of one hand. “He's powerful in his own right. He has money and influence. You have overlapping priorities. You already bicker like an old married couple. And, he's not half-bad looking.”

“He's a _man_ ,” I protested, “and if you're referring to my astounding wit, I talk to everyone like that. Marcone isn't special.”

“Yeah, maybe, but when you do it with him, it looks like foreplay. You've been teasing him for years, Harry. If he can't have the milk for free, you shouldn't be surprised that he's finally decided he wants to buy the cow.”

“Can we give the farmyard analogies a rest?”

Molly shrugged. “Well, then, _Prince Charming._ Since your fairy godmother isn't here, you're going to have to settle for a fairy apprentice instead, and I think it's going to take more than a little ‘bibbity bobbity boo,’ to get you ready for the ball. So, we'd better get to work.”

“You aren't funny.”

Molly just laughed at my scowl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly setup, but the next one is going to be a whole lot of fun.


	3. Chapter 3

Three days later, and Castle Dresden had been decorated and laid out to play host to suitors and delegates from whatever supernatural powers Mab deemed worthy of her consideration. There were buffet tables laid out with all those little finger foods that I disdained—due to the fact that you had to eat about a dozen of them to get a decent sized helping.

I'd been dressed like the Ken doll that Molly and Mab so clearly thought I was-- a new three piece suit of spider silk, with fancy silver buttons, and a black leather duster with an ermine collar. The coat was tailored in at the waist, so that it flared out around my hips. I felt completely ridiculous, but I had to admit that I cut quite a dashing figure in the getup. The tighter cut through the chest and hips made it impossible to comfortably arm myself with any of my usual weapons, but when I complained about that, I'd been informed that it wasn't considered polite to greet ones suitors as though you were going into battle. Since the odds were high that I _had_ gone into battle against more than a few of them, on other occasions, that policy just seemed short-sighted to me, but I wasn't given any say in the matter.

Likewise, my objections were ignored as I was treated to what Molly called a, “spa day,” and what I considered borderline torture. I sat in a salon chair, for what felt like days, as a team of chatty, well-coiffed, professionals exfoliated, filed, trimmed, and primped me to within an inch of my life.

By the end of it, my nails and hands were neat, and cleaner than they'd ever been, my skin was soft, and my hair looked like it belonged on a cover model. Actually, looking in the mirror, I think I looked more like my brother, Thomas, than I ever had before. Turns out that, if you don't have the natural advantages of a White Court Vampire, a few hours of treatment at the hands of the Beautician Inquisition will do in a pinch.

_No one expects The Beautician Inquisition._

Anyway, I definitely looked the part of the dashing young prince being forced by the cold and uncaring queen to marry, against his will, for political gain, as I prepared to make a grand entrance—even if I felt like a grouchy wizard who was one step away from parkouring the hell out of there, and throwing a, “Fuego,” behind him for good measure.

I was giving the idea some serious consideration when there was a soft knock at the door.

“Yeah?” I grunted out, and Molly let herself in.

“It's time,” she said.

“Yeah,” I grumbled, running my hands through my hair in agitation—probably ruining all of the Inquisitors' hard work.

Molly took another step toward me and reached up to straighten it back into place.

“You don't have much choice, except to go along with this,” she said.

“You don't have to tell me, I saw what she did to Lloyd Slate.”

“ _Buuut_ ,” she continued. “It doesn't have to be all bad. Lots of people are happy in arranged marriages, and Mab will take your choice into consideration. Just because you've been at odds with someone before, doesn't mean that your relationship can't develop beyond that. And, at least everyone here is on close to a level playing field with your own power. That's something that Susan and Karrin didn't have.”

I opened my mouth to protest the dismissal of two women I had deeply loved. They might not have been on my power-level, supernaturally speaking, (though as an unfledged vampire Susan had been able to hold her own, in much the same way that Murphy had been able to take down a Jotun with heavy artillery,) but they had both brought way more to the table than I deserved-- in pretty much every category besides magical might.

Molly must have read all of that on my face, because she held up a hand to forestall my objections, “I know, Harry, they both had a lot more to offer than raw power, but having a more resilient partner might not be a bad thing. Someone who is as supernaturally powerful as you, capable of taking care of themselves. Someone that you don't have to worry about, the next time big trouble comes calling your name.” She shrugged, giving me a pointed look.

“By that logic, I should just marry The Hulk.”

“If he's downstairs with a courting gift, I'm sure Mab would consider him. Though, I'd hope, for your sake, that it was Bruce Banner consummating the marriage.”

It took me a moment to catch her meaning, but I'm sure my complete and utter disgust was apparent when I did. “I didn't need _that_ visual, grasshopper.”

She giggled. “You might be better off playing with the boys your own size. I'm sure Gentleman Johnny is packing more than enough to keep you occupied.”

If my expression could look any more deeply disturbed, I'm sure that it did at that moment.

“Whatever Marcone is keeping in his pants is just going to have to stay there,” I grumbled.

But, _of course_ , now that Molly had brought it up, I couldn't help but wonder. Marcone had the kind of physique that you had to take notice of. I'd seen him half-naked enough times, usually in the process of suiting up for battle, but I'd never caught a glimpse of _little Marcone_. And, that thought led down a whole line of speculation that I was not at all comfortable with, but was powerless to stop. It took a force of will to push the thoughts from my mind.

“I don't care how powerful he is,” I snapped, “or what he has to offer Mab, there is _no way_ that I'm marrying Marcone.”

Molly sighed. “You should.”

“ _What_?”

“You respect him. You even like him. He has a lot to offer. You find him attractive. And, I think that he might genuinely have an interest in _you_ , and not just your mantle.”

“I do not _like_ Marcone.”

She arched an eyebrow. “That's the only point you're going to fight me on?”

I mentally ran back through her last words. “ _Yes…_ ” I said, hesitantly, drawing the word out. “I can recognize that a man is attractive without being attracted _to_ him. I am very secure in my masculinity.”

The second eyebrow joined the first, and she gave me a skeptical look. “Whatever you say, Harry. My point still stands. I've seen Mab's list. Marcone is your best bet. Might want to take a closer look at that whole _attraction_ issue. I'm not saying you're living in the closet, but, all you’re missing is the lightning bolt scar, and the round-rimmed glasses.” Then, she put on a passable impression of a shaggy half-giant, and added, “Yer a wizard, ‘Arry.” She shrugged. “Just saying… you might want to give it some thought. Might be time to come out of the cupboard under the stairs."

_Give it some thought._

_Some **thought.**_

I wasn't in the closet, and it wasn't like just thinking about Marcone naked was going to flip some magic switch and leave me singing the YMCA and marching in the pride parade.

Hell’s Bells.

And now I was thinking about Marcone naked again, so that was just great.

She gave me another one of those pitying looks. I swear she learned it from her mother.

“Either way, we'd better get downstairs. See what's on offer.” She extended her hand.

I sighed and offered my arm. “How do I even get into these messes, grasshopper?”

“Usually by running your mouth,” she answered, with no hesitation. “It's how you always seem to manage to get out of them again that never ceases to amaze me.”

I walked down the grand staircase, with Molly on my arm, feeling less like Prince Charming and more like Kristoff from _Frozen_. I'd rather be off by myself, on the frozen tundra somewhere, talking to my pets.

Scattered throughout the room below us was a group of the most powerful beings I knew, and a few that I didn't, and the last time they'd all been in this room together a Titan had shown up to ruin the party.

I was supposed to work my way around the room, with Molly as my escort, and do a bit of mingling, before the formal presentation of courting gifts began, but instead I made a beeline for the buffet table—dragging my apprentice along in my wake.

She waited patiently while I filled a perfectly ordinary, and not at all sex-themed, white plate with a pile of the bite-sized food.

“Are you going to have any vegetables with all those carbs?” she asked.

“Nope,” I extricated my arm so that I could grab a glass of wine from one of the trays circling the room. As far as I was concerned, Molly didn't have a leg to stand on with the whole nutrition thing. I'd seen her eat Nutella out of the jar with a Ringpop. She didn't have a right to judge my taste in hors d’oeuvres.

I scanned the room while I stuffed my face. My eyes were immediately drawn to Lara. Her presence was no surprise at all. She returned my glance, and tipped her glass to me in salute. This caused the man she was speaking to to turn slightly to follow her gaze, and I recognized the burning eyes directed at me with a little gulp.

Ferrovax.

“Mab invited a dragon,” I squeaked out to Molly.

“The Hulk doesn't seem too bad now, does he?”

I growled in wizardly discontent. “Who’s here as a suitor, and which ones are just escorts?”

“Uh, well…” Molly looked around the room. “The real contenders? There's Lara and Ferrovax. The Baron, of course,” she gestured to where Marcone had his back to me, broad shoulders perfectly filling out the line of his suit jacket, and then to the woman in the pink dress standing next to him. “The Archive.”

I had to do a double-take. “Ivy? She's a child.”

Molly shrugged. “She's young, but she's of age, and not exactly naïve. Though, I'm surprised she accepted Mab's invitation. She isn't one for making alliances, but she likes you.” Molly made a thoughtful noise. “Actually, she might be worth considering, if she really is here because of _you_ , rather than a chance at an alliance.”

“She's a _child_ ,” I said, again.

Molly snorted. “Suit yourself. Anyway, Gard and Kinkaid are their escorts, so you don't have to worry about them.”

I spotted Kinkaid lurking in the corner, over Ivy's shoulder. _No box of chocolates for me, then, I guess._

“Then there's Evanna.” She pointed out the svartalf.

Evanna had left the flesh mask at home, and her grey skin shone oddly in the candlelight. Ivy might look like a woman, despite still being a child, but Evanna was the opposite. She seemed childlike, with her small form, despite being considerably older than me, and I wasn't much more comfortable with the alternate shift of perception and reality. Less comfortable, knowing that she'd been one of my brother's lovers before—if you could even use that word to describe their arrangement. She looked smaller still, standing beside a bigfoot.

“River Shoulders?” I asked, in disbelief. Partially because the idea of being courted by the Sasquatch was so ridiculous, but mostly because I knew that River Shoulders was otherwise romantically involved.

“He's here as escort to his niece.” She pointed out an even larger Sasquatch in a green dress with pink polka dots, who stood a little way away, speaking with Donar Vadderung and a drop-dead-gorgeous woman who had to be a Valkyrie. “She goes by Standing Bear, but I imagine that's short for something.”

“I don't recognize the Valkyrie. Who is she?”

“I'm not sure,” Molly said. “She's escorting Vadderung.”

“Vadderung?”

“Mhm. Another surprise. I've heard that he hasn't shown much interest in anyone since his wife died, a few centuries ago. He's not Mab's first pick, of course. She already has a claim on him as Kringle, but since he's here as Vadderung, an alliance would give her access to certain resources she currently doesn't have at her command. It all depends on what he's bringing to the negotiating table.”

“No one here from the White Council,” I noted.

“No. Either they really have washed their hands of you, or they were all too afraid of what your reaction would be.”

“Where's Mab?”

“She'll be along soon. I'm sure she wants to make an entrance.”

I sighed, running through the list in my head: Lara, Marcone, Evanna, Ivy, a Sasquatch I'd never met, Santa Claus, and a fucking dragon. Harry Dresden, champion of Chicago, former wizard of the White Council, current Winter Knight, Warden of Demonreach, up for auction to the highest bidder, _again_ , and these were the people…beings… with their paddles in the air.

Really, it could have been worse. With the exception of Miss Standing Bear, who I'd never met, Ferrovax, who scared the bejesus out of me, and Marcone, who was… _Marcone_ , I even liked most of them. Still, that didn't mean I wanted to marry any of them. But, if I _had_ to pick…

Hell's bells.

I didn't know.

Probably best to just let it all play out for now. Start at the beginning. Go through the whole song and dance. Maybe another Titan would show up and destroy my roof.

A guy could hope.

“Might as well go talk to Lara,” I said. “See what she thinks about all this.”

We were about to walk over there, when there was a cough over my shoulder, and a familiar voice said, “Uh, Harry? What exactly is going on here?”

I turned to see Waldo Butters, all five foot three of him, dressed in a plaid suit and a brown velvet overcoat. His curly q-tip hair was fluffed into a mess of dark curls, and he had a long muti-colored scarf wrapped around his neck. He stood in the doorway, tense, eyes darting around the room, hand dipping into his pocket, where I'm sure he had the hilt of Fidelacchius hidden away.

“Butters,” I said. “Stand down. Mab's just hosting a little shindig.

“Oh,” he relaxed a little and pulled his hand from his pocket.

“Did he say, _Mab_?” Bob's voice asked, from the brown leather satchel slung across Butters' shoulder.

“It's okay, Bob. She isn't here yet, but you might want to zip the lip. Plenty of other folk here. It would be best to keep a low profile.”

“It would be best if we got the hell out of here,” Bob said.

“Probably,” I agreed. “What are you doing here, Butters, and what are you _wearing?”_

“I’m Tom Baker. You know, the fourth Doctor? I was on my way to a Doctor Who marathon party with The Alphas, and I got one of _those feelings._ I was turning my truck around, to head this way, before I even knew what I was doing. I thought… well, I figured you might be lonely after everything with Karrin. I was just going to come over to invite you along. Then, well... I saw all of this,” he gestured around, “and I figured that was what was causing a disturbance in The Force. What's going on here, Harry?”

I laughed. “I don't think the only Jedi Knight of the cross is going to help me with this one. Not sure The Doctor can do anything either.” I grimaced. “This is a courting ball. Mab has decided to marry me off.”

“Marry you… Harry, you _just_ lost your girlfriend,” he said indignantly. “She can't just… You need time to mourn.”

That hit like a ton of bricks, and I felt that familiar heaviness sink into my chest—a pain that the winter mantle could do nothing about.

I swallowed it back. “The wedding isn't going to be tomorrow. These are just the preliminaries—a chance for any potential suitors to present themselves.”

“Potential _suitors?_ ” He looked around the room again. “She expects you to _marry_ one of these _people_.”

“Hey, man. I feel exactly the same way. I'm not really getting much of a say in it though. You can blame Marcone and his sex plate. Last week I only had to contend with Lara, now it looks like I could find myself added to a dragon's _hoard,_ if I'm not careful.”

Butter's frowned, working it all through. “Well, I guess it's obvious why I'm here then.”

“Oh no you don't, little guy,” I said, grabbing him by the shoulders to steer him out. “I appreciate the righteous indignation, _I do_ , but I don't want to see you get hurt. I'm not letting you challenge Mab to a duel over my honor.”

He brushed me off, surprisingly strong, and straightened his coat. “I'm not stupid, Harry. I'm going to try for your hand.”

“You're _what_?”

Honestly, at this point, I should just be expecting the most ridiculous thing possible to come out of everyone's mouth.

I took a step back from him. “You can't just…” I didn't even know how to finish that sentence.

“What, you don't think Mab would consider a Knight of The Cross a worthy candidate?”

“No… I… Well… _Butters_.”

“ _Harry_ ,” he said back. “The Powers that Be wanted me here tonight _for a reason._ It isn't up to me to choose whether or not to accept that. I have a duty.”

“A duty to marry me? You think it's God's will for you to become Mrs. Dresden.”

“Stow the outdated stereotypes, Harry. I'd still be a Mr., and I'd definitely be keeping my own last name. Waldo Dresden? That just sounds weird. But, no, I don't think that the Almighty wants me to marry you. But, I _do_ think that someone needs to be here to champion your honor, and this is a better way for me to do that then by committing suicide by challenging Mab to a duel. She's just _scary_.”

“No arguments there.”

“If you do this, Waldo,” Molly spoke up, “you'll have to be careful. Don't make any promises that you aren't prepared to keep. Mab doesn't take kindly to anyone who doesn't keep their word.”

“Noted,” Butters said.

“What about Andi and Marci? How are they going to feel about this?”

Butters laughed. “I'm in a polyamorous relationship with two bisexual women, who both like you a lot. I'm just glad they aren't here, or I probably really would have to marry you.” He thought about it a moment. “I mean… I'd have to run it by them, but I'm pretty sure they're of the, ‘the more, the merrier,’ mindset. Hey,” Butters shrugged, “maybe I _should_ marry you. Might not be so bad. Broadening ones sexual horizons, and all that.”

“ _What?”_

No. _No._ That was it. The entire world had gone insane. This was some kind of mass hallucination. Some fledgling warlock's love spell gone awry. Robin Goodfellow playing a prank on The Winter Knight.

The worst of it was, given all of my choices, maybe marrying a Jedi with a polka suit in his closet was my best bet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it looks like this might end up being closer to ten chapters instead of five. As per usual, there turns out to be more story here than I was planning for. So, don't be surprised if I adjust the chapter count a few times as I go along. 
> 
> Bear with me here, there will be more Harry/Marcone interaction in the next chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> I know that I have other WIPs that need attention, but this idea hit me a couple days after finishing Battle Ground, and I just had to get it out. I'm shooting for five chapters with weekly updates.
> 
> Comments of all shapes, sizes, and varieties are very much appreciated. I love to hear from you..
> 
> Blanket permission is granted for all translation, podfic, and fanart- as always. So, if that's something you're interested in, feel free. My playground is your playground.
> 
> Thanks for Reading


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